Paul Kohler - The Borrowed Souls, A Novel

“I’ll be right up!” I said sarcastically to the dial tone in my ear. I began to wonder what he needed me for. I looked at my watch. I had been staring at my computer screen, unmoving, for three straight hours. A distraction might have been welcome, but Pearlman was not what I had in mind.

As I stepped off the elevator, Gwen nodded in the direction of Pearlman’s door as she buzzed me in. This was twice in the same morning that I’d had to stand in front of his unsmiling gaze.

“I need you to run over to that Thai place I like. Get me an order of red curry chicken, an order of pad Thai shrimp, and four spring rolls,” Pearlman ordered.

I was again speechless in front of this despicable man. I was about to protest, but he spoke before I could get a word out.

“Listen, Duffy. I know you were probably just wasting your time in your office, and my secretary has more important things to do. Just don’t mess this up, and I might consider forgetting about your tardiness this morning. Well? Get moving.”

I did the only thing I could do right then without getting fired: I nodded and turned on my heel. As I passed by Gwen’s desk, I could have sworn I saw a smirk on her face.

I stopped in my office long enough to jot down Pearlman’s order and grab my car keys. Although I could have walked the dozen or so blocks to the Thai place, I felt driving would be quicker. Besides, it was hot out, and I didn’t feel like sweating through my last white shirt of the week.

The elevator was quick, and although my car started up relatively easy, my breath quickened when the engine died a moment later. I turned the key again, and after a hint of protest, the engine fired again and away I went.

The lunch hour traffic was expectedly slow, but to my delight, I was able to park right in front of the restaurant. I considered leaving the engine running while I ran into The Catcher in the Thai, but I removed the key out of habit. I double-checked my pocket for the lunch order. Two pats on my breast pocket and I headed into the crowded restaurant.

The air inside reeked of rancid cooking oil laced with a hint of old seafood. The line at the to-go counter was eight souls deep. As it inched forward every five minutes or so, I shuffled my feet and contemplated my project. As much as I hated my job, I constantly dwelled on it. Maybe that was why I hated it so much: because of its silent demand on my attention. Having been passed over for promotion twice in three years, I sometimes wondered if it was worth staying with the company. I was obviously going nowhere, but at least I got a paycheck every other week.

I was so deep in thought, the Hispanic woman behind the counter had to say it again: “Can I take your order?”

I pulled the sheet of paper from my pocket and relayed the order. Her pleasant smile never wavering, she entered the lunch order into the decrepit system and repeated it back to me precisely. I swiped my company credit card and gave the nice woman a twenty-five percent tip. Compliments of Mr. Pearlman, I thought to myself. She handed me a ticket number, and I stepped aside for others to place their order.

As I stood along the wall of the narrow restaurant, I contemplated the irony of a Hispanic woman working at a Thai restaurant in New York. “Only in America,” I mumbled. Nobody around me noticed. The patrons were all self-involved with their smart phones.

It wasn’t long before they called my order, and as I stepped forward to check that the contents of the Styrofoam containers matched my receipt, the Hispanic woman watched attentively. I nodded at her when I found everything in order. She smiled and nodded her head low.

Once back to the car, I was greeted by an offensive yellow parking ticket tucked haphazardly under the blade of my windshield wiper. By this point in my day, I concluded that the world was in fact out to get me. Thankfully, the car started on the first attempt, and the trip back to the office was unremarkable. Total round-trip for Pinhead Pearlman took just under an hour.

Back up to the sixteenth floor, I stalked right by Gwen and into Pearlman’s office. He looked up as I unceremoniously dropped the food on his desk, pulled the receipt stapled to the bag, and read it aloud.

“One order red curry chicken. One order pad Thai shrimp. Four spring rolls.” Pearlman looked up from the receipt and scowled profusely in my general direction. “I said curry beef, not chicken.” His scowl turned to disgust as he pulled the food containers from the paper bag. “I suppose I can choke it down. Now if you’re done bothering me, why don’t you get back to work. Isn’t your lunch hour just about over?”

The aroma of the food reminded me I had not had lunch myself. I was famished. With my lunch hour wasted on a fool’s errand, I hoped I had a snack stashed away in my desk.

“Yes, that sounds about right,” I replied. Before leaving Pearlman’s office, I pulled the charge receipt from my breast pocket and dropped it on his desk, directly next to the red curry chicken. Smiling, I turned and walked out of his office. Gwen stood poised outside his office, waiting for my exit. As soon as I passed her desk, she slipped in, closing the door behind her.

“What an incredible douche bag!” I said aloud. “I can’t believe he made me his errand boy again.”

“This Mr. Pearlman is not a candidate for boss of the year,” said Wilson.

“Far from it. He is underqualified and overpaid. He is your run-of-the-mill brownnoser and only got the position because he knows the right people—”

“A baboon could do his job better,” Wilson said.

Shocked that Wilson said the exact words I was going to say next, I looked over at the old man. He was still sitting in a casual manner, but the lines between his eyes had deepened, and if I didn’t know any better, I would have thought I noticed a bit of compassion in his eyes.

“You are a peculiar man, Wilson. What gives?” I asked.

Wilson whistled softly. “Oh, I’ve been doing this for more than sixty years.”

“And what exactly is it that you’ve been doing for more than sixty years?”

“I guess you could say I lend an ear to those in need,” Wilson said, deftly avoiding the question.

“OK, but how have you been at this for sixty years? You don’t look a day over sixty-five. How does that work?”

Wilson fidgeted with the shiny cuff links holding his sleeves tight to his wrists. “That’s a whole other matter. One which we have no time to discuss. Please, Mr. Duffy, continue.”

Wishing for more information from the old man, but also wanting to get through the rest of the day, I quickly flipped the coin over.

“Pearlman did it again, didn’t he?” came a voice from behind me.

Before turning to see who it belonged to, I slid the last of my dollar bills into the vending machine and punched E9, launching the spiral delivery system into motion. The kerplunk echoed throughout the tiny break room, and I pulled out the last candy bar in the machine.

“Hey, Alan. Yeah, Pearlman got me again,” I replied before tearing open the plastic wrapper and biting off half the candy bar.

“I’d tell you about lessons learned, but I’m sure you don’t want to hear it.”

“Here’s the thing, Alan: I wrote down the order before I left. He’s just a crazy bastard,” I replied. “I got him in the end though. I charged it to the company and left the receipt, along with the handwritten food order, on his desk.”

“Great! That’s one for the peasants. How’d he take it?” Alan asked.

Swallowing the last of my candy bar, I shook my head. “Not sure. I left before he noticed. I thought it best to get out before he realized what had happened.”